


Almost Historic

by lynlikesthings



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Modern AU, i'll add the others as they show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynlikesthings/pseuds/lynlikesthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see faces in your dreams. Well, everyone sees faces. But for you, it’s different. They aren’t just faces; they are the same faces, the same 9 faces.  These nine faces, they seem familiar. You paint them; you paint them all the time. They are your friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a better rewritten version of the other fanfic I started, which still makes it basically my first fanfic I've written. Sorry if it's similar to other reincarnation fics?

You see faces in your dreams. Well, everyone sees faces. But for you, it’s different. They aren’t just faces; they are the same faces, the same 9 faces. These nine faces, they seem familiar. You paint them; you paint them all the time. They are your friends. Well, eight of them you know are friends, the ninth… somehow he’s not. When asked by your professors what the fuck you paint all the fucking time, you have no answer. No answer fits, nothing seems right. But it gets weirder. No longer are you just painting the faces, the nine boys, but what they’re doing, where they are. You think it’s so wrong, but it feels so right. Hell, you can’t even name the time period you paint them in. The dreams are getting worse, edging into nightmares. Done. You are done. You have had enough of this not knowing, of this terrible half knowing. Today is the day you get your useless ass out of the dorm and down the history museum. They can identify your paintings. At the very least they will know when, if not who. Maybe with the when you can figure out the who. But stop. Slow down. One thing at a time. Paintings, grab two. You grab the two with all 9 of them, the realistic ones, although they are different time periods.

You walk out the door and walk to the history museum. You’ve never been a fan of the history museum. Why bother when the art museum is right next door? Art is what has you so enthralled, the history captured in it, not some worn out artifacts. You enter, and wander around for a bit, not knowing where to go. Something tells you that you will know when your answers are near. An hour later, you wander near the French Revolution section. It feels…it feels…not right. But it feels different. You feel a step closer to something hidden. Suddenly you see a man. “Apollo” you cry out without warning, and the man miraculously turns around.

“Did you just say my name?” He asks. You snicker, wondering who the fuck would name their kid Apollo.

“Is it true? It cannot be. Godlike as you are, your name cannot seriously be Apollo” You reply. The man looks confused, and you wonder if you said something wrong.

“No, of course not, I don’t know why I responded to that. My name is Peter.” The godlike man says.

“And I’m Ryan, call me R. Now that we’re talking, you look comfortable here. Mind answering a few questions?”

“R, that sounds familiar…Anyway, yes, I can answer some history questions.” Peter answers. You lead him over to the nearest bench, and pull out the more modern of the two paintings.

“I’m not going to explain because it would be too weird, but I painted this, and do you happen to know anything about the time period or what the fuck is going on?” You ask quickly, avoiding glancing at Peter. Peter is silent for a minute, for two minutes, for three. You get impatient and look up. “Well?”

“June Rebellion, Paris, 1832. I need you to explain, but not here, my place is close, I don’t care if you have any plans, you are cancelling them and coming with me” Instructs Peter, confusing you. But he’s Apollo, your Apollo, and you cannot say no. You get up, and side by side you walk in silence to Peter’s dorm. Inside Peter’s dorm, you both sit down.

“How the fuck did you know exactly when it was?” You burst out, breaking the short silence.

“I know French history, although that rebellion is more or less forgotten. No, it’s more than that. Those faces, I know those faces. I mean, I’ve never seen them before, but I know them.”

“They are my friends. I see them in my dreams. I paint them all the time” You explain.

“You see the faces, I see the war. War is what floods my nightmares.” Peter breathes.

“I paint them fighting, I paint them…dead. But if you see them and know they are friends, and they are my friends…” I start.

“We must be friends. I must be one of the nine, and so are you” Peter finishes.

“You are my dear Apollo, of course I painted you. I have more paintings of you than of any of the others. How did I not realize it the second I shouted your name. My Apollo, my Enjolras…” You whisper, thinking back to the godlike figure gracing so many works of art. Apollo, no, Peter, no. Enjolras. Enjolras looks up and stares at you. Slowly tears spring up in his eyes. You start crying too without realizing it.

“Grantaire, I…Thank you. I never realized, not until that moment. I’m so sorry, forgive me.” Enjolras says, finally breaking the silence. You know what he’s talking about instantly. No need to voice the memories, your final moments. You died holding his hand, you died with your beliefs. You died with the one you loved.

“There is no need for thanks or forgiveness. Please, don’t feel bad, at least not about me. The others, sure, but not me. My choice was mine alone.” You quickly say in response. Another silence falls. You take this time to take out the other painting, the one you cannot recall, even now. Enjolras stares, and then begins to laugh.

“What the fuck is so funny, Enjolras?” You demand.

“I’m not trying to insult your intelligence, but how can you not recognize this painting? It’s Alexander the Great, and his dear Hephaestion. Of course, he’s also surrounded by their other friends.” Enjolras states, and then sighs. “If the other painting is of us, and this feels the same, does that mean that this is us too? The memories are more distant.”

“Leave the memories be. An extra life is enough to remember for now.” You say quietly

“Let’s find the others, remember our Parisian lives. Then with the others, we can make that final journey together.” Enjolras says, always with a plan.

“A fit plan as always, my dear Apollo.”


	2. Elliot and Leo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poland, poetry, and cliches!

     You walk through the garden on campus, thinking somehow of Poland, but otherwise bored. You think of Poland often, no idea why. It just happens, like being able to speak French or knowing the battle tactics of Alexander the Great. You can’t explain it so you don’t. You are lonely often, feeling like you just can’t fit in. In this mindset, you continue to walk aimlessly. Well, you think it’s aimlessly, but when you see a man sitting under a tree, you walk up to him. The man, the boy, the student, is wearing floral print jeans and a plain v-neck. There is a wreath of flowers in his hair and the boy is looking down, scribbling in a well worn notebook. You realize he must be a poet, and you feel fond. “What are you writing?” You say, as you stand in front of him. He looks up and blushes.

     “Just some poetry, as always,” the poet responds. “Um, my name is Elliot, and you can sit down if you’d like. I mean, it doesn’t seem like you have anywhere to go and I’ve been rather lonely.”  
   

     “My name is Leo. Can I read your poem?” you ask, sitting down as he hands you his notebook. You read the poem, a narrative about a revolutionary group of students. The poem feels like a memory, like you’ve read it before. You haven’t seeing as you’ve never even met Elliot before. But it’s unexplainable like YOUR FUCKING LOVE OF POLAND.

     “I know these boys,” you whisper, trusting the poet to not think you insane.  
    

     “I know them too, Leo,” Elliot whispers back. You look at him and you know you know him. “I don’t know how, I mean, all I know of them is written in poetry. But I know them.

     “Suddenly it all rushes back. The world goes black and you hear a scream, then silence. Horrible silence. And you know that Elliot is not merely Elliot. He is Jean Prouvarie. You know his end was worse than the others. If Elliot…No. If Jehan, yes, remembers how it all ended, well, you don’t want to deal with that here. But then again, now that he’s starting to remember can you really leave him alone again? You were never the closest of the Amis. Yes, you were one of the nine and so was here, but you are no Courfeyrac or Combeferre…

     Suddenly you feel someone slap you and you open your eyes, never realizing that they were closed. Blinking a few times, you look up and realize Jehan is still there. “You fainted. Was it the heat? I would think not. It probably had something to do with knowing them, knowing me. Well, I mean, if the stories and clichés are to be believed” Jehan rambles. In that moment, you decide to keep quiet about the poet’s death, at least for now. Intrepid though he is, the others are more suited.

     “Jehan, my darling, your clichés are right.”

     “Feuilly, then let us continue to sit here and enjoy the fine day. They will find us. I mean, I’m not hard to find. Where else would a poet be? Besides, if we go search, as the stories go, it just takes too fucking long.” And with that, you sit there next to the poet drinking in the day, content to feel just a bit more whole that you have in 50 years…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken forever, I'm sorry. I've been busy with softball. And honestly, it's not that good. Anyway, thanks for reading this. It's not the best writing. So Leo is Feuilly and Elliot is Jehan. I have nothing to do in Creative Writing so more will be written quickly.


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